


Home, Sherlock, Home

by JohnlockedAndLoaded (Felar)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Being in the proximity of a corpse, Character Death, Drama, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mind Palace, More than a touch of the Dramatic, Shakespearean Tragedy, Thinking naughty thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 17:17:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9247595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felar/pseuds/JohnlockedAndLoaded
Summary: This was at first just a blurb on Tumblr but I have placed it here for posterity.This was inspired by one of Sexlock's beautiful images.  I've linked to it in the notes.“You wanted more?”“Not, at first. Sex just never seemed worth the trouble. For a long time I considered myself Asexual, but I guess I was actually more of a Demisexual. It wasn’t until our stag night… your, I meant *your* stag night. That night and after that night… many things started creeping into my dreams and... then I started experimenting.”“Sherlock! You have to elaborate now.”“John, you’re dead, how can you possibly still have a libido.”“Well, some traits just transcend corporeal form.”“John, you are making me blush.”“I always loved to see color on you. Especially, that purple shirt of yours.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Death of John (Art Work)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/254228) by sexlock.tumblr.com. 



> This is unbeta'ed because I couldn't find a beta willing to read a death fic, on short notice... If you are willing please contact me and let me know about error's you found.

It was to be a closed casket service. John had requested that.

It did make it easier.

8 hours, 23 min, Sherlock had calculated, and 6 had already passed. On most people it would take longer but that’s because they always had food in their system. Sherlock hadn't eaten for three days... Why should he care for the ugly needs of transport?… John was dead.

Sherlock waited at the wake far longer than anyone else. He let the people say what they needed to, saying their condolences with pats on the back. Then he hid while the proprietors locked up…

They acted like the universe was not breaking in pieces around them. Like there was a chance to get back to normal…

Didn’t they see, John was dead. Even Mycroft’s text… “I’m sorry little brother.”

Even that was condescending and painful…

He made a few last texts… Some to Molly, telling her the latches on John’s casket were not sealed correctly and that someone should take care of that before the ceremony tomorrow.

He heard John over his shoulder, “Sherlock.”

He texted Lestrade saying, that he wanted to show him something tomorrow… to come to 221B after the ceremony.

He texted Mycroft something similar.

Then he opened a new text. John was still listed him at the top, even the computer algorithm used for frequently used contacts, could read Sherlock like a book.

He opened the blank text… He had only planned on it being a simple confession… A simple, “I have and always will love you, John. ~SH”

But once the words started flowing they just didn’t stop. There he wrote confessions about stealing small things, to remind him of John when he was away. Of intentionally sabotaging some of his relationships out of pure jealously. About looking at the pictures of John in his uniform. And being broken apart and reformed stronger with every piece of praise that came from John. Then he had a moment of introspection and texted, “John, if what I put you through for those 2 years is even partial to what I am currently experiencing… I apologize again. It was unconscionable of me. And I am amazed, again, at your strength, for I can’t make it 3 days without you in the world.”

He stops. That is a good as a place as any…

He places his phone on the floor, suspended across two hymnal books and then lifts and drops the pew in the dead center of the phone… snapping it in half.

He picks up the pieces and heads to the front of the room. He sits the two halves of the phone in front of John’s picture, right next to his war medals.

He then goes over casket and pops loose the secured bolts holding it closed.

He hears John calling to him from behind him again, “Sherlock.”

“I’m coming, John,” he answers with a start of a smile.

“You’ll need to budge over some… ” Sherlock says as he pushes John’s corpse over a little.

“Why Sherlock?”

“We’ll, John, I am lithe but I still require some physical space, and I need a bit than is here at the moment.”

“…Sherlock…”

“oh. you mean why have I killed myself? Simple. I can’t live in a world you don’t exist in.”

“Oh, Sherlock. It will get better with time.”

“John, it won’t. It really won’t. Curse of the eidetic memory. For every day, every moment for the rest of my life I will be holding you watching you die. Everytime I relive it, it will be as painful and as clear as the first. My memories don’t fade. And most especially, memories about you.” Sherlock explains this while crawling in next to John and laying his coat over both of them like a blanket.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

Sherlock closes the bottom half of the casket and secures the clamp he can reach. “Because, at first I wasn’t sure what was going on. Then you had girlfriends, all the time. Not to mention you were constantly screaming, *I’m not gay*.”

“There wasn’t a time when I didn’t heartlessly abandon those girlfriends for you…”

“I know, John. And I can’t tell you how amazing and confusing that was for me.”

He takes out a syringe and gently taps the bubbles out. It’s such a practiced procedure, he could probably do it blindfolded. The needle into those veins, the heroin sliding into his blood… And the the silence, oh that blissful silence. The rest of the world just shutting up and buggering off.

“You planning on going out with an overdose?”

“Don’t be so pedestrian, John. The heroin is for comfort. I wasn’t about to end this in a mess and even though I plan on us being underground before they piece together what I did. I still think they will check to be sure. So I took a concentrated lethal dose of botox in a time release capsule. A simple paralysis and the respiratory failure followed by cardiac arrest, a clean death, no vomiting or other messy business that comes with so many other poisons… I’m sure you would appreciate the drama of them opening the casket and seeing us, in a lovers embrace.”

“Lover's Embrace... Sherlock? ... Really? When?”

“Well, It wasn’t until I was away for two years that I realized how much I had come to depend on you. How much a part of me you were.”

“It’s was the same for me you know.”

“I figured that out ... well, eventually.”

“You are brilliant, you idiot.”

“I spoke to you often when I was away, but it was clear to me that you were not around, so it really stood out how much I needed you when you weren’t there. There was no plausible deniability. I tried, mostly out of sheer stubbornness, to reattach that need to a fictional character, like the skull. But I couldn’t do it, I wasted almost two weeks just trying to create this mental sounding board and every time I tried, it turned into you.”

“It’s nice to be remembered.”

"I once tried to have Molly help me on a case."

"Really? When?"

"When you weren't talking to me after I came back..."

"I bet that was horrible for you, for both of you actually."

"Yes, I made a fool of myself... I kept calling her John."

"You are a right git, Sherlock, aren't you."

“I am just a characterchure of a person sometimes aren’t I.”

“What do you mean, Sherlock?”

“Your words, *Sherlock sees though everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things*… I really didn’t know. I didn’t understand this level of grief. And that you endured it… and kept living. I don’t understand how you did it. I wasn’t part of this human condition until I met you. You made me the man, I am today.”

The John makes a huffing sound, “I made you into suicidal emo wanker determined to go out in a dramatic Shakespearean tragedy?”

“Oh, John. I was already that… You turned me into someone that can love beyond themselves. Someone that I'm proud to be,... well, most of the time, anyway.” Sherlock grabbed two red roses from one of the flower arrangements and settled down. He nestled until his head could fall semi-comfortably onto John’s still chest and let the lid to the casket fall closed…

“It’s is kinda unfair.”

“Monumentally, John. But I sense your statement was more targeted, to what are you specifically referring?”

“When they open this box and see us in our *lovers embrace*. We never were, I mean, physically.”

“True, John. In fact, I was never sure. Your confessions in death, when I was telling you to hold on while emergency services arrived, you telling me that you loved me and always had. That was far more than I would have ever thought to have had from you.”

“You wanted more?”

“Not, at first. Sex just never seemed worth the trouble. For a long time I considered myself Asexual, but I guess I was actually more of a Demisexual. It wasn’t until our stag night… your, I meant *your* stag night. That night and after that night… many things started creeping into my dreams and... then I started experimenting.”

“Sherlock! You have to elaborate now.”

“John, you’re dead, how can you possibly still have a libido.”

“Well, some traits just transcend corporeal form.”

“John, you are making me blush.”

“I always loved to see color on you. Especially, that purple shirt of yours.”

“I noticed you would allow yourself to look at me slightly longer when I would wear this shirt. I could only guess at the reason why though."

"You were always nice to look at."

"John, I can feel the paralysis setting in. The heroin is still nice and strong though. John. I’m scared. Last timed I died I was locked up with Moriarty.”

“Sherlock, it’s ok. I’m here with you. In the end it’s always you and me. Forever.”

“John, I can’t move.”

“Sherlock, it’s ok. I can.” He does, or at least one form of John does. He cups Sherlock’s face between his hands brushes his incorporeal lips across the still, warm ones. “Tell me about what we would have done if…”

“John”, Sherlock tries to say his mouth just not working…

“Sherlock, take me with you into your mind palace, or opiate trip… Whatever you call it these days.”

Sherlock smiles.

“How about this, John.”

“Wow, fucking hell, Sherlock. This is amazing.” John stands there looking at his hands as if they are something new.

“This is that college where that cabbie…”

“Yeah.” Sherlock, leans against one of the pillars.

“That far back.”

“From Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“So what’s behind these doors?”

“Anything you want, John.”

Sherlock turns to one behind him and opens it. “Beach house in the Bahamas.” He opens another, “mountain view of Tibet.”

“Both nice and tempting, but I was thinking a little closer to home.”

Sherlock crosses the hall opening another, “French countryside?”

“Nice, but I still want closer to home.”

“Scotland castle?” John shakes his head. “Welsh B&B?” John shakes his head with a laugh this time.

“John, you are being quite picky.”

“Picky?! You’re the one that offered, *anything I want* if I recall correctly.”

“Then be more specific, John.”

John crosses the hall grabbing Sherlock’s shirt over the buttons pushing him against the wall and pulling him down just a little. “Home, Sherlock. Home.” And then John pushes in until their lips meet.

Sherlock melts and his faculties are not quite there for a second, but it isn’t more than a few seconds when John pulls away just enough to breath, “That’s more like it.”

“However could you tell, John? Your eyes are still shut”

“The smell of formaldehyde from the kitchen, the texture of the wallpaper and the creaking floor. You have really done well here.”

“I aim to please.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that.” John takes him by the hand and pulls him down the hall through the door at the end.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Somewhere back in another place, at the top of 17 steps, there is a deerstalker sitting on a round table, holding a phone. Next to it was a tan jumper supporting a violin. There was 4 notes addressed and labeled to Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft's was the only one open, it had a list. Followed by a simple scrawl of text. "No need to make arrangements, brother dear. I made my own. ~SH"


End file.
